


Watching Over You

by thefriendlyrhino



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort, Gen, Hell, Midnight, Torture, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:20:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefriendlyrhino/pseuds/thefriendlyrhino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has been plagued by nightmares every night since he was pulled out of hell.  And yet, something is different about this particular night...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching Over You

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to cheekbones_and_galaxy_eyes for helping me edit this like CRAZY! :)

Dean heard the heavy, rhythmic thumping of his heart flood his ears, and felt his blood coursing through his veins with each beat.  The acrid smell of burning flesh surrounded him, mixing with the metallic scent that hung sourly in the cool air.  His ears felt raw from the desperate cries that echoed around him.  They were never ending, never pausing for a breath.

A wet ripping sound filled the air, and the shrill cries rose up another octave.  Dean could feel his hand curling around the blade, now slippery and slick.

There was something soft beneath him.  It was writhing, struggling, shrieking.  Dean gritted his teeth, a growl tugging at the back of his throat.

With the knife still in his grip, he set to work.  Carving, cutting, slicing, each shriek extracted fueling him.  Each beg for mercy filled him with insatiable glee.  

Slowly, the figure beneath him stopped the struggle, growing limp.  Dean’s own heart beat faster, feeding off the labored heartbeat of his victim.  Their body was heavy, if you could even call it a body.  It had been mangled beyond recognition, made into a intricate, grotesque pile of blood and skin.

Dean could feel breath on the back of his neck as someone leaned over him.  A dry chuckle identified the figure as Alistair.  He turned and watched the demon as he nodded, acknowledging Dean’s work with a wry smirk.

“Good.” The voice was cold, calculating, and brought a familiar chill up Dean’s spine.  There was a spark of satisfaction and pride roaming in his coal black eyes, and Dean saw it slip subtly into his smile.

Dean wondered how he must look to the demon.  Crazed, sadistic, vicious.  The warm blood dripping down his arms, the lust swimming in his eyes, and the mangled corpse beneath him were all clear signs of what he was becoming.  One of them.

He could feel his humanity slipping away, becoming just an echo.  A faint memory.  He had lived a lifetime down here.  A lifetime of agony, torture, and suffering, whether his or another’s.  Lines were becoming blurred, memories were fading, leaving only the frigid, eternal hell that was, well, hell.

Alistair cleared his throat and clucked his tongue with approval.  Dean’s muscles tensed, his grip tightened around the stained knife in his hand.  The demon was pondering something, and he awaited his next order like a good soldier.  After all, he was broken.  He was theirs.  Theirs to mold, to command, to inflict upon thousands and thousands of souls.  A weapon.

The demon scanned Dean’s feral figure a final time, but never made eye contact.  He licked his lips slowly, greedily.  And with a soft snap of his fingers, the whole scene was renewed.  The knife was bloodless, the body was gone, Dean was cleaned up, and Alistair had disappeared.

A small figure was huddled in the corner of the dark space.  Her mousy brown hair hung in tangled, greasy clumps over her bare legs.  Shivers of fear wracked her body, causing her small figure to shudder violently.  Quiet sobs laced with fear punctuated the crushing silence as Dean watched her from the shadows.

His whole body coiled up again, settling into a familiar stance, and ready to attack.  He was the predator now; she was his prey.  He shifted the blade, adjusting his grip and winding his hand around it even tighter than before.

Adrenaline pumping, head pounding, senses tingling, he launched himself at her.

 

With a sudden jolt Dean was in a bed, the thin sheets snaked around his legs.  His breath was ragged, his heart beat wildly in his chest.  The salty smell of his sweat mixed with the aroma of the motel—a pathetic attempt at masking the mold with some cheap floral air fresheners.  

Dean was tense, panicked, and could still feel the ghost of the knife in his hand as he cut into the girl, his ears still ringing from her cries.

He had learned to cope with these nightmares, drowning them in booze and sex, pushing them away.  But this one was different.  It left his stomach in knots, still rolling with waves of nausea.  It had been so much more vivid and real.

Dean’s eyes scanned the room continuously, afraid of what would happen if he allowed himself to drift off again.  His hair stood on end with every drip of the faucet, and his muscles tensed each time a car rolled by.  

The absence of his brother only made this worse.  Sam was gone, going solo.  The bed beside him was empty, undisturbed.  It felt strange to be alone like this, to be without his brother.  Sam was his other half; it was like losing a limb to not have him here.

His nerves were still frayed, his mind was still racing, but Dean yanked the covers back around him, rubbed his face into the pillow, and settled back into the creaky mattress.  His body finally began to relax and uncoil, and he let himself drift off again.

 

The pain was immediate.  A sharp burning sensation flooded Dean’s body, seeping deep into his skin and searing his blood.  Heavy, ragged tears poured down his face, carving deep welts in his cheeks and face.  His own throat was raw from the constant screams that erupted from the pit of his stomach.  The frigid air was thick with the copper smell of his blood as it flowed from every pore of his body, as it mixed with his tangible horror and fear.

Dean was thrashing, pulling away, trying to escape the constant burning and relentless pain.  But he was being restrained by something; he could feel thick, rough rope binding his limbs down, keeping him still as the agony ravaged his body.  Each labored breath released another wave of screams as the pain only grew sharper, more intense, worse.

 

Castiel stood silently by the side of some road.  He didn’t know where he was, but it didn’t matter.   Because in exactly two hours and forty-six minutes he would go to Dean’s room in Century Motel, room 113.

Every once in awhile he would gingerly tap the screen of his small cell phone, and glance hopefully at the time.

Not time yet.

The night was quiet and peaceful.  An occasional car coming down the road, its headlights glaring, was the only disturbance from the soft chirp of crickets and the rustling of trees.  Castiel took a deep breath of the warm night air, and continued to wait.

Suddenly he could feel it.  A sharp, incessant nagging deep inside him.  It only grew stronger, grew more intense, and began to take shape.  The desperation behind it made his hair stand on end, the pure fear it carried tied his stomach in knots.  This tugging sensation, calling out to him, begging him for help, it was all too familiar.  Dean.

The cheap convenience store phone hit the ground, the screen cracking into a spider web.

 

Castiel came to Dean’s dark motel room, fully alert and ready for a fight.  But there were no demons or angels in the room.  Dean wasn’t even awake.  Castiel cocked his head slightly, brow furrowing, before it hit him.

Dean was dreaming.

He was having a nightmare.

Castiel stared curiously at Dean as he slept on the bed.  He lay on his back, chest rising and falling with each puff of breath, a thin sheen of sweat coating his brow, and clothes disheveled. The constant jolts of fear Dean was shooting through Castiel’s body didn’t fit with the scene of his slumbering figure.

An empty beer bottle lay on its side on the floor by the bed, and a gun glistened in the moonlight from the bedside table, catching Castiel’s eye.  The sour smell of spray paint still lingered in the air from the devil’s trap that had been placed on a rag in front of the door.

The sheer panic and terror in Dean’s prayers were starting to rub off on Castiel, making his stomach roll and his palms clammy.  An itch was crawling up Castiel’s spine, his heartbeat was starting to rise.  He had to end this, to show Dean his nightmare wasn’t real.

Castiel was not oblivious to the hellish life the Winchesters had lived, Dean in particular.  Not many human souls were extracted from hell.  Castiel knew Dean had been plagued with nightmares ever since he returned, maybe even before.  But Castiel had never felt this.  This desperation, this pleading.  Dean had prayed to Castiel before, often simply asking him to come by and check in.  And he had responded, most of the time.  But normally Dean was awake.  The dreams had never been this bad.

Castiel inched closer to the bed, and slowly sat down on the side, only inches from Dean.  He lay his hand on Dean’s arm gingerly, hoping to be gentle in doing this.  He pushed on Dean’s thick arm ever so slightly, trying to wake him.

But Dean slept on, the piercing calls only growing more desperate.  Castiel placed a second arm on him, and jostled him a bit more roughly this time.

The muscles under his arm stiffened up, and Dean began to wake.   Castiel pulled his arms back onto his own lap.

Dean’s eyes snapped open, and he groggily pushed his upper body up onto his elbows.   He lifted his wide green eyes to meet Castiel’s, and in Dean’s eyes the fear of the dream still remained.   His cheeks were wet, and his eyes looked glassy.  The lines in his face seemed to be carved deeper than normal, even heavier with stress and worry.  Castiel felt an apologetic smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.  This was when he should try to comfort him.

Castiel extended his arm once again, to Dean’s shoulder, and patted him slowly.  Hopefully this would make him feel better.

The terror faded from his eyes as Dean adjusted to his surroundings, and Castiel saw a flash of embarrassment cross his face as Dean pulled an arm up and aggressively wiped his eyes with his sleeve.  With a quick glance to his left Dean saw the time on the clock.  3:24. He glowered at Castiel’s shadowy figure.

“Cas.”  Dean’s eyes had focused on Castiel’s hand as it continuously thumped softly against his shoulder.  Castiel stopped.  So much for comforting Dean.

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t be popping in for another two hours or so.  Sleep, remember?”  Dean raised his eyebrows quizzically, his words still heavy with sleep.

“You were having a nightmare,” Castiel stated.

Dean rubbed his face with his hand.  When didn’t he have nightmares?

“You prayed to me while you were asleep.  Your calls were desperate, I figured something was wrong.  So I came to you.”

Dean sighed heavily and rolled out of the bed.  Crossing the room, he pulled another beer out of the motel mini-fridge.  With a quiet pop the cap was off, and he took a long swig before responding.

He shook his head slowly.  “Thanks, Cas, but nothing’s actually wrong.  See?  Everything’s just peachy.”  Dean settled into a chair, beer bottle in hand.

Castiel furrowed his brow.  “I don’t see what peaches have to do with your welfare, Dean.”

Dean groaned softly to himself.   “It’s just a figure of—oh never mind.”  He waved a hand dismissively.

“Well, since I’m up...” Dean grabbed the small remote, and turned on the small television in the corner of the room.  He dragged a second chair next to him, its rough scraping sounding loud in the quiet motel room.  He shot a look at Castiel, indicating he sit.

Castiel moved stiffly as he walked over to the chair.  He settled into it slowly, his beige trenchcoat wrinkling at the shoulders.

Dean kept tapping the remote, flipping through the channels, and eventually settling on a college football game.  

They stared wordlessly at the small TV screen, watching the grainy figures of football players sprint across a field, the fuzzy sound of the referees blaring from the speakers.  Dean let out an occasional cry of triumph, or a moan of defeat as touchdowns were scored, or passes were fumbled, and the game went on.  Castiel sat there silently, watching Dean more than the game.  

The minutes ticked by, neither one of them moving, and in those simple minutes Dean felt a calmness wash over him, a sense of something that felt kind of like happiness.  He never had the time for this anymore; to simply sit back, drink some beer, enjoy a football game, and put a pause on the stress, the worry.  Preferably he wouldn’t be taking these pauses at three o’clock in the morning, but he’d take what he could get.  The game went on, and neither of them spoke a word.

Eventually one of Dean’s celebratory cheers was cut short by a gaping yawn, causing Castiel’s eyes to shift back to him once again.  

“Dean.”

“Hmm?”  Dean tore his eyes away from the blurry screen and raised his eyebrows.

“You’re tired.”  It was a simply stated fact.  “You should sleep.”

“Cas, buddy, I’m always tired.”  Dean snapped open another beer.  “It’s part of my job description.”  

Castiel shifted in the chair so that he was facing Dean.  “You need to sleep.”  This one was more pleading.

Dean took a deep breath, not entirely willing to meet Castiel’s gaze.  He knew that the momentary peace he was feeling would disappear the second he closed his eyes.  But that damn angel sure seemed to care about this.

Castiel’s eyes roamed Dean’s face, flickering over his features.  He could see clearly the hard lines etched in his face from worry, the dark bags beneath his eyes from lack of sleep.  

“I will stay here.  I will watch over you.”  Castiel hoped this would bring some comfort to Dean, and make him more willing to go back to bed.

“What about your little mission to find God, Cas?”  Dean leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.  “Weren’t you gonna zap me off for that soon?”

“Yes.”  Castiel’s gaze softened, his blue eyes seeming to grow darker.  “But you are human.  You have things you need to do.  Like sleep.”

Dean sighed again, hearing Castiel echoing what Dean had said to him earlier.  

“Fine.”

With a grunt Dean rose out of the wooden chair, and shut of the television with a tap of the remote.  He set the control and his beer down on the table again, and sat down on the mattress, the springs groaning under his weight.  

“Watch over me, huh?”  He chuckled quietly, “Because that’s normal.”

Castiel’s eyes remained fixed on Dean as he began to settle back into the bed.  Dean glared at him until he looked away.  Those blue eyes felt like they were boring into his soul.

“Let me sleep, Cas,” He muttered, rolling onto his side.  “I’ll be fine, you go.  Just- just pop back in and wake me up in a couple hours.”

Castiel didn’t move from his chair, and Dean never heard the soft flap of his wings that signaled his departure.  He cracked open an eye, and could still see the shadowy outline of Castiel’s figure in the chair.  It brought a faint smile to his tired lips as he slowly fell asleep.

Once he was sure Dean was asleep, Castiel turned his gaze back onto him.  He watched his face soften, the lines of insomnia and stress melting away in his sleep.  

Castiel took a deep breath of his own and got comfortable in the chair, his eyes fixed on Dean.

Castiel didn’t move all the rest of the night, never budged from his position as he watched over Dean.  The twinges of fear never returned to his gut, and Dean’s face remained calm and undisturbed as he slept.  These were good signs.

Castiel felt something warm in his chest, and felt it slowly spreading throughout his body, numbing his limbs, and causing a wide grin to dance across his face.  

At least right now, things were doing alright.  

 

 


End file.
